


Howl Like Wolves

by violentdarlings



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Choking, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, F/M, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, Porn with Feelings, Post-Deadpool (2016), so many feelings, supportive relationship that involves acceptance of one another's weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 10:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15071642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: “Okay,” Wade says, too brightly, his smile stretching his face like a rictus grin. “Just Deadpool, that’s what you want? I can do that.”





	Howl Like Wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Come A Little Bit Closer, You're My Kind Of Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713424) by [violentdarlings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings). 



> Title from David Condos - "Like Wolves".

“Okay,” Wade says, too brightly, his smile stretching his face like a rictus grin. “Just Deadpool, that’s what you want? I can do that.” Vanessa rolls her eyes.

“No, honey, that’s what you want,” she says patiently. “We’re doing this for you, remember?” Wade looks away.

“Yeah,” he singsongs, “but it’s easier if I pretend I’m doing it for you.” In an aside, as if to an imaginary audience, he mutters, “ _Everything’s_ easier if I pretend I’m doing it for Ness.” Vanessa’s used to it by now.

“Eyes front,” she reminds him. Wade smirks.

“I like it when you get bossy,” he purrs, eyes raking her up and down. In his ratty T-shirt and old sweats, he is completely hers; mottled red skin, bald head, eyes warm and flashing with humour. He’s putting a brave face on, but he’s nervous. Vanessa can read him like a book, but she can’t tell exactly what he’s stressing about. They’ll have to see.

“Go get into the suit,” she tells him, and to disguise her own nervousness sits down in the easy chair with a novel, although she can’t say she takes in a single word. Her senses are bent entirely on the bathroom; the sound of Wade taking off his clothes, the muttered ‘fuck’ when he stubs his toe, the rasp of the suit sliding onto his skin. Involuntarily, her eyes flick to the bathroom.

Deadpool, she reminds herself.  This is for Deadpool.

She looks at her book again.

“Still want me?” Deadpool asks, forever and never later.

Vanessa sets down her book, bookmarks it carefully, and looks up. Wade is in the doorway, masked, gloved and suited top to toe, although he’s left off his katanas and guns and belt. He’s leaning against the door, his body arched into a curve that manages to be both relaxed and slutty. Vanessa raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t fool her in the slightest.

“I always want you,” she replies evenly, and the mask looks away, its blank white eyes unreadable. She beckons him over, and obligingly he comes close, looming over her. Vanessa stands too, because she doesn’t like being lower than him.

“Ha. Yeah. Except, you mean, you always want Wade. Not –” He laughs, jagged and ugly. It’s Wade’s laugh, but stripped down and raked over gravel, and then doused in acid. Vanessa hates it. She also wants to take him _apart_. “Wade, the good boy, he’s your man. Not your friendly neighbourhood pool boy, no sirree, not D-to-the-E-to-the-A-D – ow!” Vanessa slaps his arm. The mask looks at her accusingly. “Unfair,” it whines. _He_. Fuck.

“Behave,” she orders. “You want me to tell Wade you were rude to me?” He goes still. It’s like watching an apex predator blend in with their environment, intent on the kill.

“No,” he says, the voice just different enough from Wade’s usual speaking voice for Vanessa to tell, lilting up at the end, like that any moment he could break into song. She doubts anyone else would be able to, though; who else has had Wade Wilson on repeat in their head for the last few years, determined not to forget?

Weasel, maybe. Vanessa doesn’t mind that. Wade was Weasel’s before he was hers. If their friendship occasionally spills over into emotion-fuelled fistfights and the odd drunken make out, then Vanessa can cope with that. It’s always hot seeing boys kissing, especially when one of them is hers.

“Get on the bed,” Vanessa tells him, and Deadpool struts over to it like he’s about to take the stage at the club. Back arched, head cocked at an insouciant angle, like he’s presenting himself for her inspection, daring her to do something about it.

“Do I pass muster, Commandant?” he asks. “ _With glowing hearts we see thee rise_ – ha, _something’s_ gonna rise –”

“Shut up,” Vanessa snaps, sharp enough to cut, and sits down beside him on the bed. “I take that shit from Wade. I don’t have to take it from you.” Deadpool’s mouth shuts with an audible clack. “You’re here because I want it. I’ll tell you to talk when I want it. Am I clear?” The mask eyes her sullenly. “You may speak.”

“ _Yes_ , Vanessa,” Deadpool grinds out, clearly annoyed. “Although I gotta say, I meant this to be a hell of a lot more fun.”

Vanessa slaps him hard across the face.

Deadpool’s head snaps to the side. She wonders how much of it he can feel through the fabric, and her palm itches; she slaps him again, the other cheek, the impact thudding pleasantly up her arm. “Merc with a mouth,” she says, and Deadpool jumps slightly, like hearing one of his war names from her is terrifying and abnormal and wrong. “Be _less_ mouthy, if at all possible.”

Wade would never go so quietly, but Deadpool subsides, although his crossed arms and rigid posture indicate his displeasure. She has nothing more to go on, the mask is static regardless of Deadpool’s mood, and without words, he is almost an impenetrable being, locked away from the world, hermetically sealed inside his red bubble of tough, durable fabric. Untouchable, and isolated.

Just not from Vanessa.

“You’re here for me,” she reiterates. Deadpool nods, albeit reluctantly. “Get your cock out.”

“I feel so used,” Deadpool snarks, but his gloved hands drop to his groin. Vanessa lets it slide, watching with interest as the red suit is peeled back, exposing scarred skin and a decently impressive semi. He’s only bare from the thighs to his belly, and it stirs something in Vanessa’s chest, the scarred little dent of his bellybutton, the stippling on his dick. She wants to kiss him all over, but that’s not the point. She’s not here to be nice to him.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asks, slapping his dick (the way she knows Wade likes it, but they never said she couldn’t use prior knowledge). It jumps a little, pre-come oozing. Deadpool stares up at her with blank white eyes, but he’s tense enough that Vanessa half-expects him to leap off the bed any moment. “I suppose I’ll just have to do this myself,” she sighs, and slides down his body, flipping her dress over her head as she goes.

She’s naked underneath, because why wear a bra when she doesn’t have to, and panties are oppression, damn it, she’ll take that to her grave. It’s got nothing to do with Deadpool’s tiny intake of breath, hastily stifled like he doesn’t want to give even that much of himself away.

Vanessa blows him anyway.

Deadpool swears, a colourful string of words involving a moose, someone’s mother, and an excess of maple syrup. Vanessa ignores him, mouthing at his cock, and leather creaks as Deadpool’s hands ball into fists. Vanessa grins up at him. “You don’t need to keep your hands to yourself,” she points out. “I won’t break.”

“How do you know,” Deadpool grits out, but gloved hands are cupping Vanessa’s cheeks; his eyes are glued to her face, from the angle of the mask, and he’s not looking away. It’s like he’s trying to eat her alive. “I could snap your neck.”

Vanessa ignores him, and sucks him in harder, her cheeks hollowing; Deadpool groans and his left hand snakes around to the base of her skull, pushing her face down harder on his dick. Vanessa stills, and Deadpool takes over, fucking her face onto his dick without so much as a warning. Vanessa relaxes her throat and breathes through her nose, and Deadpool moans, something in between a growl and a gasp.

“I’m hurting you,” he grits out, thrusting hard, and Vanessa gags involuntarily. But she keeps her eyes on him, keeps them calm, her hands resting on his thighs. The whole point of this, what Wade had claimed to want, was a punishment session with his alter ego. But Deadpool’s voice is ragged and tentative, and Vanessa thinks he doesn’t want to be punished at all. The opposite. “I hurt you. I stayed away for over a year –”

Vanessa raises an eyebrow, and reluctantly Deadpool pulls back, releasing his hold on her head. Vanessa gulps in air. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” she points out, voice raw. “I’m still mad about it. But I’m not about to rub your face in it, Deadpool.”

He flinches, and moves too fast for her to react; he rolls them over, and his leather-clad hand is on Vanessa’s throat, deadly pressure, fingers twitching. There is panic, as instinctive as the beat of her heart, but Vanessa lies there, soft and still and passive underneath him. She probably should be scared. But even now, it’s only Deadpool, who saved her, who gave her back Wade.

(And she likes it, the danger. She’s always liked it. It gets her wet and it gets her going, the thought that these hands that touch her might hurt her too.)

“I killed so many people,” Deadpool says, and a cold hand encloses Vanessa’s heart, squeezing it tight. Hurting her is one thing, but hurting others is something else entirely. “So many. And I liked it, and I won’t stop. I won’t ever stop.”

It’s like he’s desperately searching for something that will make her hate him. He really ought to know that it wouldn’t work; Vanessa just shrugs. “His and hers hand grenades, then?” she asks, and Deadpool, the mask eyes widening just a bit, closes his hand harder around her throat. Vanessa walks a knife's edge of terror and elation, and loves it. "Mercs on the street, boring middle-aged soccer moms in the sheets?" She grins at him, but she can tell even without his face that, for once, Deadpool is not in the mood to laugh.

“Don’t,” he says, very softly, very dangerously, and it's starting to get hard to fill her lungs. “Don’t make a joke of this.”

Vanessa just smirks at him. “We make a joke of everything else, so why the fuck not?”

There is a sudden, awful stillness.

“Why,” Deadpool says, and he sounds almost contemplative. “Why. Isn’t that the great fucking question. _Why_?” he snarls, and his voice is pure venom, turned inside out and twisted up and projected onto her like vomit. It makes Vanessa feel dirty, and not in the fun way. “ _Why the fuck do you put up with me_?”

Vanessa pauses. Here, at last, is the crux of it.

“is that what you’ve been sulking about?” she asks. Deadpool’s head twists to the side, refusing to meet her eyes. “ _Deadpool_.”

“Maybe,” he sulks. “You signed on for Wade, not – not the rest.” _Not me,_ she hears, as clear as day. Vanessa’s heart might be breaking.

“Don’t worry, Deadpool,” she says without letting a single iota of it show in her face. He watches her, warily, and Vanessa strokes his masked forehead, pats his red cheek. “I won’t get rid of you. Know why?” She doesn’t let him get a word in. “Because I’ll never stop loving you. Every bit of you. Jesus, get that through your thick head, why don’t you?”

The mask doesn’t change, but Wade does. On a breath like a sob, he yanks the mask over his head and tosses it on the floor, smashing his lips against Vanessa’s in a kiss that is more assault that tenderness. Vanessa goes with it, fighting him back, scrabbling her hands over every bit of him she can reach to tear the suit from his skin. “Wade,” she cries out, relieved and wounded beyond measure, her hands on his bare back scratching out lines that heal before they have a chance to bleed. He groans, and fits himself to her in a heartbeat, sliding into her with the ease of long practise. It helps that she’s drenched, opening to him easily, because Vanessa gets off on this, shamelessly, finding the weird places in both Wade and herself and giving them a sharp prod. It hurts, and it’s awful, and the coming back together is sweeter for it, and stronger.

Wade is in her to the hilt, and Vanessa never wants to be without him. “Don’t ever leave,” he mutters, his hands on her hips, one gloved and one bare. It doesn’t matter. Vanessa loves him regardless what he’s called or what shadows are left in him, from that time he was becoming. “You can't ever leave me. Promise me, Ness, please.”

And how can she not? “Promise,” Vanessa replies, and hopes against that time doesn’t prove her a liar. She closes her eyes, kisses the uneven flesh of his exposed shoulder, runs her fingers down his spine, catching here and there on his suit. She isn’t going to live forever.

She wonders what he’ll do then.


End file.
